


Side Effects of Seventeen

by volti



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkward Dates, F/M, I'm Sorry, Making Out, Movie Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: “What’s up?” Akira hummed. He didn’t take his eyes off the TV, but he did give her shoulder a squeeze.“Nothing,” Makoto lied. “I just thought I recognized one of the actresses.”Which wasn’t entirely untrue. It was just that she was staring down search results forHow to make outinstead of the Internet Movie Database.In which Makoto Niijima… tries.





	Side Effects of Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melkechi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melkechi/gifts).



> me: hey, i should probably work on my next chaptered project—  
> stupid idiot primal brain: write makoto frantically googling how to make out instead

Who was she kidding? She had no idea what she was doing.

From the moment Makoto had sat at the foot of Akira’s bed—no, maybe from the moment she’d stepped into Leblanc altogether—no, maybe it was the moment she’d even agreed to come over on a Sunday in the first place. Whenever it was, she’d been shaking from that moment, and hadn’t really stopped. It was the subtle kind, like a never-ending flutter. Something that buzzed under her skin and rolled her stomach over and over, filled her head with the static of TV snow more than it made her actually tremble. She wasn’t sure if it was a good thing that Akira couldn’t tell from his place beside her. Or whether it was a good thing that whenever he did look her way, the shaking stopped.

And then started back up again when he turned back to the movie they were watching.

It wasn’t exactly the first time they’d watched a movie together—not after she’d practically dragged him to the theater in Shibuya over the summer. And it wasn’t the first time they’d been to the coffee shop’s attic, not since the Phantom Thieves had begun to have their meetings up here. It wasn’t even the first time they were alone together. It was just the first time all three happened to coincide, and perhaps that was what was making her so nervous.

What was she supposed to be doing? How comfortable was she supposed to be? She was stiff as a board whether she let her legs dangle over the edge of the bed or crossed them in front of her. She even jumped at the feel of Akira’s arm sliding carefully around her waist and pulling her closer, and he’d actually _done_ that before. And he was so much of a gentleman about it that he actually apologized and started to let her go—at least, until she panicked, seized his arm, and held it there without a word.

Eiko was right. She was _terrible_ at this.

It was getting to the point where Makoto was pretty sure she was looking at Akira more than she was looking at the TV. It wasn’t as though the movie wasn’t interesting—besides, she’d put him through enough of her yakuza films; she could handle some romantic comedies every once in a while. (Even if she wasn’t sure how many pages she was supposed to be taking from the characters’ books.) It was more that she was… studying him? He always had the most fascinating expressions. Always so enthralled with whatever was put in front of him. Like everything was a discovery, instead of just something to commit to memory. And when they watched movies together, it was no different. He might as well have been biting his nails or huddling up in a blanket, his eyes glued to the screen.

He made her breath stop sometimes. Most times.

 _Kiss him,_ something in her said, and the shaking stopped. Turned into a jolt that left the both of them wide-eyed.

“Are you okay?” Akira asked. Neither of them had said much since the movie started, but his voice was as deep and as soft as always. It made Makoto shiver, and she didn’t know whether she hated it, or herself for liking it so much.

Makoto nodded dumbly, afraid her voice would crack if she tried to speak, and tried to make up for it by scooting a little closer to him. She was pressed flush against his side, close enough that she could shift into his lap if she really wanted to. And at this point, she honestly wasn’t sure if she wanted it.

Or maybe she did, and was too afraid to admit it to herself.

Just like the kissing.

It wasn’t as though they hadn’t done that before, either. They just didn’t do it… all that often. Not because neither of them wanted to, but because they didn’t always get a moment alone, and even then, one of them was too nervous to do anything about it—no, not _one of them. She_ was always too nervous to do anything about it. Akira simply followed her lead, except for the few times he didn’t. The times when he looked around to make sure they were really alone before stealing a quiet kiss from her, sometimes so fast it was a crush of the lips, sometimes so soft she wasn’t sure it had ever actually happened. Though she supposed it wasn’t really stealing if he asked her permission first.

_Can I kiss you?_

How could such a simple question make her throat go so dry so fast? How could it make her heart jump so high up into her throat and her knees knock together? And why couldn’t she ask that exact same question herself?

Another glance up told her that Akira was still focused on the movie, even as his fingers traced idle patterns up and down her arms and even as he tucked her head under his chin. It was a comfort to know he was still here, making time and space for her, almost as much as it was a comfort to know she could fish her phone out of some pocket and study it in the meantime. Because if she _was_ going to kiss him, to ask for permission and let the moment be as… intense… as she would allow it, then she was going to do it right.

“What’s up?” Akira hummed. He didn’t take his eyes off the TV, but he did give her shoulder a squeeze.

“Nothing,” Makoto lied. “I just thought I recognized one of the actresses.”

Which wasn’t entirely untrue. It was just that she was staring down search results for _How to make out_ instead of the Internet Movie Database.

She wished there were a better word for it, but nothing sounded right. Even _deep kissing,_ as objective as it was, made her twinge and her cheeks hot. There was no escaping it. She could barely peek at an article for more than thirty seconds before she was frantically swiping back and scrolling to something else. Not that it helped—she could barely retain anything past remembering to breathe and close her eyes, and none of these links said _anything_ about where she was supposed to put her hands. She very well couldn’t pull up a video tutorial, partly because it would make noise and Akira would know exactly what she was up to, and partly because a video of people kissing would make her wildly uncomfortable, and would catch Akira’s eye, and he’d _still_ know what she was up to.

The worst part, it seemed, was that if Makoto wanted to learn how to do anything in relationship, she’d actually have to do it herself.

“Find it?” Akira said. There was a smile in his voice now, much more obvious than before.

“Wha—? Oh—” Makoto scrambled to close the browser on her phone and lock the screen. “Yes, I… I guess I mistook her for someone else…”

Akira hummed again, a low rumble in his throat; his fingers reached up to thread through her hair, and a chill spread out from her spine to the rest of her body. “It happens.”

The movie still blared to fill up the empty spaces in the attic, and somehow it still felt like there was a deafening silence between and around them. A stiffness that she wanted—needed—to get rid of, even if she had to do it herself. Akira wasn’t doing much; he just held her there, sometimes sipping from a cup of coffee he left on the windowsill. Mostly following her lead again, it seemed. And the more time passed, the more the buzzing and shaking got to her, got in her head, told her to do something to make a move, to figure out where her hands were supposed to go—

“What are you thinking about?” Akira asked.

Makoto blinked to attention—not a jolt this time, to her relief. She probably would have knocked his jaw if she did, which would have been more mortifying than her actual thoughts. “Oh, um… a lot, I suppose,” she admitted.

“Mm.” His fingers still hadn’t left her hair. “I guess sitting quietly would make you think about a lot.”

“It does.” She paused. “Hey?”

“Yeah?”

Makoto didn’t realize she was kissing him until she actually was. Her fingers were somewhere between brushing his jaw and curling in the front of his shirt, and the rest of her body was as stiff as it had been since the movie began, and his lips were so soft and so warm, just barely puckered, that she almost forgot to pull away. And she really did forget to speak when she finally did pull away. It was clumsy, and she didn’t know what she was doing, but she’d done it, and that was something.

“…Oh,” Akira said after a silence. His lips were still parted, and his eyes were slightly wider than usual, and he sounded a little out of breath. “That’s what you were thinking about.”

Makoto did the only thing she could think of doing. She said, “I’m sorry.”

“No—” He leaned in closer. “Don’t… don’t be sorry.”

Whatever happened in the movie in those moments that followed, Makoto didn’t know. She was entirely too focused on how Akira’s mouth moved against hers, and how his hands itched to touch her waist when she remembered to breathe in between. Somehow, she found herself brave enough to reach for his wrists, to secure his hands where she knew he wanted them—where _she_ wanted them—and the last thing she saw before her eyes fluttered shut again was the way his own darkened in the light of the attic.

“Can we do that again?” he asked. His words were warm on her lips, like she could swallow each breath, and his voice cracked. “Because I want to. I really, really want to.”

Makoto nodded, then spoke, and she’d barely gotten out the _yes_ before he pulled her in again. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t know what he was doing either—he’d admitted to her once, while turning a deep red, that she was his first girlfriend too—but at least he knew where to put his hands. At least, she thought he did. She could feel them splayed against her back, insisting on pressing her closer to him, and she all but melted. How could something so searing, something that burned so much, make her shiver like this?

And… was that—?

Oh—that was, _definitely_ , his tongue swiping against her lips—

She squeaked, and gasped, and apparently that was all the permission she needed to give before his tongue delved into her mouth, warm and wet and so entirely _strange._ His mouth muffled hers, and she hoped to God that she didn’t make any more noise, because there were still customers downstairs. There was hardly anything about this in the articles she’d read, or rather skimmed, and the most she could manage was to slide her arms around his neck and hold him there.

“Akira—” She whispered it, because she didn’t trust herself with anything louder. She was burning from the inside out, and it was getting uncomfortable, sitting side-by-side like this, like they could be closer. Like they _should_ be closer.

She could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. And how his lips were just starting to swell. And his eyes, how his gaze flitted first toward his bed—the _bed!_ —and then to his lap, and then back to her. He took a breath. “It’s up to you.”

Which was, honestly, the worst possible ball to leave in her court.

Makoto barely had to think; her body acted before the rest of her did, shifted to straddle his hips with her back to the TV altogether. She wasn’t even sitting in his lap; she was hovering over him, using all the strength in her thighs and bracing herself on his shoulders, because who knew what would happen if she lowered herself any more? _Now_ she was shaking, inside and out, but not the sort that made her want to stop and run. Actually, it was… surprisingly the opposite. Even if she asked him with her eyes, over and over, if he was really sure that he wanted her to do this.

Akira didn’t say anything. He leaned back on his hands and lifted his chin, and he looked like some strange composition of _Come get me_ and _I want you_ and… and _I trust you._

He trusted her.

“Come here,” she whispered, except she was the one to come to him, careful and as fluid as she thought she could be. The movie was playing still, but it was all background noise in the face of his lips moving so cautiously, his hand sliding down and up her back as he shifted to kiss along the line of her jaw. For someone who had never done this before, he sure knew what he was doing. Right down to the shudder at her ear. Right down to the way he flicked nervously at the zipper at the nape of her neck. But he didn’t do anything with it, only returned to her lips and apparently tried to pull off some combination of kissing her and shifting backward. It barely worked; he stumbled against his pillows and lost his grip on her, and she had to brace her hands on his bed for leverage. Inches from his face. Looming over him.

He smiled. “Come here,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow and thumbing her cheek, and pulled her back in. At least like this she could sort of hover over him, without touching too much, even if it did look a little ungraceful. Uncertainly, she tugged at the collar of his shirt, kissed him under his jaw and couldn’t help a shy smile at the way his breath caught.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

His grin was near-audible. “No you’re not.”

They must have done a whirlwind of things, but this was what she remembered: shy hands and soft breaths. Fingers caught in fabric and hair. The fact that her headband must have bounced off the bed somewhere. How Akira fumbled with her turtleneck, just to mouth at the skin there and hear her whimper his name. How she bit her lip and shuddered through clenched teeth because, still, there were customers downstairs and the movie could only cover up so much. How he dared to press his hand to her back, further down over her clothes and further up under them, and how she _definitely_ hadn’t researched this but she _definitely_ didn’t want to stop this and she _definitely_ needed to muffle an undignified sound against his shoulder.

“I wish it were nighttime,” Akira breathed, somewhere between Makoto finding the courage to nip at his collarbone and lacing their fingers together to pin his wrist to the mattress. And she tensed and pawed at the back of his head, and her body pressed against him almost entirely on its own, and she suddenly couldn’t get close enough, no matter how disheveled she must have looked.

Except this time Akira was the one to jolt up, and Makoto scrambled backward and nearly fell off the bed herself. She jammed her hands in her lap, stared at him wide-eyed. Had she done something wrong? Was she not supposed to…?

And then her gaze dropped—just enough—and her cheeks burned brighter. “Oh,” she said. “ _Oh,_ I—”

“I gotta—” Akira cleared his throat and wobbled to his feet. “I’ll, uh. Be right back.”

Makoto didn’t know or want to keep track of how long he was gone. Only that when he returned, deep red and stammering, the credits had long since rolled, and the TV screen glowed blue. They sat beside one another, hands folded tight in their lap, and Makoto made it a point to straighten out her clothes and pick her headband up from the floor. “I’m so sorry” was all she managed to say to break the silence.

“It’s okay,” Akira mumbled. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Did…” She paused. “Did I do that?”

He turned redder, and looked away, scuffing his heels against the floor. “Yeah. You did that.”

“Oh.”

Silence. Then Akira took a deep breath. “I didn’t… want to stop, you know,” he said. “What we were doing before.”

Nervously, Makoto rubbed the back of her neck. “Did you want to… er… continue?”

He let out a weak laugh, got up to shut off the TV, so that the only sounds left to comfort them were the bubble of the coffee machines and the murmur of the news downstairs. “I’m pretty sure I ruined any chances of that, huh.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Makoto reassured him. “I don’t think you could ruin anything.”

Akira looked taken aback against the dying glow of the screen, rooted to the spot. But he softened around the edges, every inch of him, and took up his seat again with a warm smile that must have been more for himself than for her. For a while, he didn’t say anything, only played with his hands and kicked at the floor until the blush on his cheeks died away. Then he lifted his chin to look at her. “Hey?”

“Hm?”

He turned her face toward him, and leaned in enough to nuzzle her into one more kiss. It was just as warm as all the others, and far softer, and he tasted lazy when she mustered up the courage to brush her tongue against his. Like a morning blend. Like home. She didn’t need a browser to know that.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/omnistruck) and a [Tumblr](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com); follow me there for more shenanigans! Feel free to leave comments and stuff in my askbox as well c: 
> 
> If you like shumako, give my longfic a spin! It's called [Flunking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935432/chapters/37157951) and updates every Saturday <3
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!


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